


like a plague of locusts

by vvirago



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Shovel Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 20:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20102899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvirago/pseuds/vvirago
Summary: On Taungsday, Kylo wakes up to find a note gouged onto his personal fresher’s mirror in exacting six-inch-high letters as he slept.We know your past, we know where you sleep, and we synthesize toxins that will shrivel your testicles and vaporize your eyeballs in your skull, it reads.Watch your step. Love, Internal Affairs.An old fill for a prompt on tfa_kink.





	like a plague of locusts

**Author's Note:**

> The days of the week were cribbed from some Star Wars Legends wiki page and are probably not particularly canonical.
> 
> Original post found here: https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/2821.html?thread=4025349#cmt4025349

On Primeday the General arrives onto the bridge of the _Finalizer_ with a ring of violet bruises peeking coyly above his exactingly turned-out collar and a rolling looseness to his step. His crisp orders are delivered with the faintest grating rasp, which he lingers on deliberately, caressing the softly-husked syllables. Petty Officer Thanisson drops his datapad in his presence, an admittedly routine occurrence, but the General doesn’t even pause to fix him with his usual condemning (ice-cold, vivid) stare.

This is—as the crew of the _Finalizer_ concurs through hasty on-duty whispers, a deeply-encrypted techie groupchat, canteen gossip, and the trooper rumor chain—what can be officially termed a _mystery_.

It all begins to unravel when Lieutenant Mitaka confesses he was nearly accosted by Kylo Ren on his way to his duty station at 0600, just outside the turbolift to the starboard aft of the ship, where there are absolutely nothing but officers’ quarters and engine rooms. Captain Phasma adds her two cents after, plied with a considerable measure of the command staff’s privately-stashed alcohol, she concedes to hold forth on the General’s own drunken confessions regarding an unwise but compelling romantic entanglement. The intelligence crew, insular bastards that they are, refuse to either confirm or deny the contents of any security recordings, but their inscrutable smiles have taken on the particular smug quality that surfaces only when, as one might expect, something exists to be confirmed.

In the end, however, it’s UT-7035 who breaks it all open. Midweek she charges, unmasked and breathless, into Cafeteria 8 and announces to all and sundry that absolutely no one is to go opening any supply cabinets in Sector 17 because the General and the Knight are fornicating in one of them, she doesn’t remember which, but the General really does have a fantastic arse, it has these little freckles, and she hadn’t thought Lord Ren would look like such a fifteen-year-old beneath the mask but his shoulders are simply luscious and who knew the ship had such fantastic soundproofing, really, opening that door was like being assaulted by full-scale Bith operatic production—

—which is when her squad mates take mercy and stuff her lunch into her mouth. She chews furiously, clearly intending to continue speaking. To certain interested parties’ dismay, UT-7040’s more sensible priorities eventually prevail and UT-7035 is convinced to keep her silence, but it’s far too late for any semblance of discretion to remain in the 400 troopers riveted on the single most interesting happening in the course of their careers. By Benduday not a one of the 70,000 odd staff and crew on the Finalizer remains unaware that the General and the leader of the Knights of Ren are, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking.

Thus begins the strangest week of Kylo Ren’s life.

*

The following morning, Primeday once more, Kylo Ren is cornered on the way to the fresher by the gleaming chrome column known as Captain Phasma. Normally he finds Phasma reasonably tolerable, as long as she’s not lecturing him about preserving her worthless disposable minions. At the moment, he is not overlong on patience, seeing as he really needs to piss.

“You and the General,” Phasma opens.

“What,” says Kylo.

“Hurt him and I’ll break you.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ren,” Phasma snaps. “The whole ship knows you’re _together_.”

_Fuck_, Kylo thinks, recalling Hux’s viciously hissed lecture on discretion. 

“Are you listening to me?” Phasma demands, slamming him into the wall in a jangle of armor.

Kylo winces, as much from his jostled bladder as her bruising grip on his shoulders. Nevertheless—“Take your hands off your superior, Captain,” he sneers—he does have a reputation to maintain.

“Keep _your_ hands off yours,” she retorts, and strides away, supremely unconcerned.

Kylo takes a moment to blink at her relentlessly shiny back before recalling that, right, the fresher. Also, he decides, some things Hux really doesn’t need to know. 

*

On Centaxday Kylo is startled out of his nightly meditation session by an alert from his door. Kylo is not exactly accustomed to hosting visitors, particularly since Hux prefers his own quarters and has, at any rate, already banished Kylo for the day, citing a truly staggering backlog of administrative foolishness—Kylo’s words, not Hux’s. Nevertheless he fastens his helmet back on and stabs the entrance button so that the door swooshes open and reveals—

“Hux’s little flunkey,” says Kylo. “Why are you here?”

“I’m Lieutenant Mitaka, sir,” says the flunkey, spit-polished from hat to boots but face waxy white and curiously stiff. 

“Yes,” Kylo says, drawing out each syllable, “I do remember you.”

“I merely wanted to inform you, sir,” says Mitaka, each word carefully enunciated despite the sweat beading on his upper lip, “that the every individual on this ship has nothing but the utmost respect for General Hux, who embodies in every way the true ethos of the First Order, who shines as an example to us all through his diligence, thoroughness, and pragmatism—”

Kylo presses the button again and the door swooshes shut.

“And we will not hesitate!” Lieutenant Mitaka screams at the top of his lungs. “To provide all due retribution! Should the illustrious efficacy of the General be impaired! In any way!”

Kylo mashes his elbow against the button. The door swooshes open. Kylo extends his hand and catches the miserable little worm in a force choke, watching his eyes roll back, his pallor flush to a deep plum shade, his fingers claw fervently at his precisely-buttoned uniform collar. Eventually he lowers his arm and the lieutenant collapses in a heap, stirring weakly. He steps back, hits the button, and watches the door swoosh shut. After a moment’s reflection he contacts medbay. Hux hardly needs any more excuses, after all, to throw Kylo out of his bed.

*

On Taungsday Kylo wakes up to find a note gouged onto his personal fresher’s mirror in exacting six-inch-high letters as he slept. _We know your past, we know where you sleep, and we synthesize toxins that will shrivel your testicles and vaporize your eyeballs in your skull_, it reads. _Watch your step. Love, Internal Affairs_.

Still three-quarters of the way asleep, Kylo puts his fist through the mirror and spends an hour and a half getting shards of glass picked out of his knuckles by an unsympathetic medical droid, then five minutes lectured by an irate on-duty Hux. He would be sorrier, but all that rage has transmuted deliciously by the Hux gets off shift.

*

On Zheliday Kylo is minding his own business, practicing his forms in Training Room 118, when he becomes aware of a swarm of whispers buzzing just outside in the corridor. He’s contemplating taking a lightsaber to the whole kriffing ship when a trooper scampers in, hands raised in surrender, and begins babbling so rapidly that only at the end of her spiel can Kylo distinguish—

“—so we know really well that you’re insanely powerful and terrifying and kind of magical sir but there’s thousands of us and only one of you, so if leave another mark on the General’s—”

Here another trooper, the rest of the platoon evidently having trailed in for moral support, interjects, “—perfect, swan-like—”

“—neck we’ll mob you like a plague of locusts and strip every last scrap of flesh from your bones. Sir.”

“How do you even know what a plague of locusts is?” Kylo complains, sweeping the lot of them to the side with a wave of his hand. They topple like bowling pins, but continue to stare at him accusingly through their blank white helmets. “Go away!”

The troopers skedaddle.

_Swan-like?_ Kylo thinks, alone once more, recalling the hard lines of tendons and trachea and jugular beneath his fingers, Hux’s face alight with lust and rage and victory, his orgasm packing a punch like a gut shot as it reverberated through the Force and towed Kylo under in its wake. _Your general is a karking tauntaun_.

*

“Your underlings are insane,” says Kylo Ren on Benduday, post-coital and lulled into complacency by Hux’s fingers carding through his hair.

“My underlings are the ideal example of a well-oiled war machine,” says Hux. “Since when did you interact with them outside your disruptive little temper tantrums, anyway?”

“Uh,” says Kylo.

“Ren,” says Hux, hand tightening against his scalp.

“Your crew,” Kylo sniffs, “seems to be under the impression that your lovely neck and delicate virtue need protecting.”

“What,” says Hux.

“Of course I disabused them of the notion,” Kylo adds. 

“I’m sure,” Hux says silkily. “Why don’t you prove it to me right here, right now.”

Kylo casts his eyes beseechingly upwards. “What, again?”

*

The third Primeday, the General saunters onto the bridge and immediately commandeers the ship-wide comms. 

“Your loyalty,” he proclaims, silence ringing after every word, “is commendable. Your devotion, both to me and the First Order, is the power that will bring the false republic to its knees and the Order to the greatest heights of its glory. And as your commander-in-chief,” he continues, now eking the syllables out between gritted teeth, “I can assure you that Lord Ren is more than adequately in hand, and that your efforts should be devoted whole-heartedly to our righteous cause and our future triumphs. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” chorus the bridge crew, the troopers, the support staff in the bowels of the ship and Phasma with her hand propped against her cocked hip.

“But Hux,” Lord Ren adds, materializing suddenly from wherever he’d been lurking, “belongs to me. And there is nothing swan-like about his neck!”

General Hux rotates, slowly, to seize Lord Ren by the cowl. “Somehow,” the General snarls, “I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with me. Let's go remedy that, shall we?” He proceeds to drag Lord Ren, staggering, off to parts unknown.

The crew of the Finalizer, daunted but never defeated, gleefully watches them go.


End file.
